‘Dear me! I thought you only got those things in jail. Oh! What’s that?’ she exclaimed, spotting Adela’s photo over my bed. She went nearer, and put up her pince-nez. ‘Dear, dear! A girl! A girl, John!’
‘An old friend, mater. She’s—she’s really quite nice. Her uncle is a vicar.’
‘Does she live near here?’
‘Well—not quite.’
‘I must speak to you about this later.’ Then she turned to the boys again, and had a pleasant chat. Meanwhile I had got two cars, and pushed the party into them. We sailed off to the local hotel, where we had a ripping tea. Poor Aunt Jane wasn’t in the piece; mother had so many things to ask my friends. They gathered round her, and she simply treated them as her own little boys. Even Ginger enjoyed it. It was so natural, so human, so much like his own dear mater, who was—dead. Her whole concern was about their boots, their clothing, and their spiritual welfare. And did they write every day to their mothers, like her own dear John? Tosher, the materialist, fell head over ears in love with the dear old mater. She taught him to appreciate this fact, that the strength of the Old Country lies in the wonderful women who have suckled a manly and virile race. The party was all too short, and the ladies were sorry to go. We escorted them to the station. Tosher, with true Canadian generosity, bought a huge box of chocolates; Beefy presented some flowers to Aunt Jane; and Ginger, Nobby, and Billy loaded them up with magazines and books.
‘You dear, dear boys!’ said mother.
‘Good-bye, mater.’
‘Good-bye, Aunt Jane,’ they all shouted as the two dearest women in the world were whirled away on the south express.
‘Good-bye, dear boys.—And, John’—— mother shouted.
‘Yes, mater?’